Allure in Spades

In anticipation of a predicted heavy overnight frost, I was filling the old hot bag with water from the kettle, which was just off the boil. As I poured, I diverted the merest splash of hot water into my nightcap whisky, which stood on a table nearby. My plan was to lay the filled hot bag under the duvet, and then after I’d sipped my whisky I’d retire to a nicely warmed bed.

As I guided the flow from spout to hole, I almost scalded myself when I was given a start by the sudden loud buzz of the door entry intercom in the living room. I screwed the cap into the hot bag and went to answer the call, just as a second, more impatient buzz sounded.

A glance at the wall clock showed ten to midnight. I’m always apprehensive of unexpected callers late at night, although the usual reason behind them is that the inebriation of old Jenkins from apartment seven is such, he can’t guide his key into the lock. On those occasions, he summons assistance from his neighbours by pressing random buttons on the console until one of us buzzes him in. I picked up the handset.

“Hello?” I said.

“Jeff,” a man said, “are you still up?” I recognised the voice as that of my good friend Sporty, whose nickname has less to do with athleticism, and more to do with his name being S. Porter.

“I’m here,” I said.

“Buzz me in then,” he said, “it’s freezing out here.”

I did as he asked, and a minute later he was in the living room, clapping his gloved hands.

“It’s perishing cold out tonight,” he said, as I went back into the kitchen to finish filling the hot bag. Sporty entered, having removed his coat and gloves.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I said, “The kettle’s just boiled.”

“I could do with something to warm me up,” he said, side-eyeing my whisky. I acquiesced to the hint, although it was clear from his slurred speech that he’d already partaken of either grape or grain, or, more likely knowing Sporty, both. Five minutes later, my bed was being warmed, and my new guest and I sat chatting in the living room over nightcaps.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I said.

“I’ve missed my last bus, Jeff,” he said, “so I need the help of a good friend.” I wasn’t sure if Sporty was going to touch me for cash for a taxi or ask for a bed for the night.

“Can’t you get a cab?” I said. He shook his head.

“No cash, old mate. I came in on a return bus ticket, but, as they say, that sail has shipped.”

“Really, Sporty! That was a bit reckless, leaving yourself stranded seven miles from home on a freezing night like this.”

“Yes, but,” he said, and then he went silent.

“I can put you up on the couch,” I said.

“You see,” Sporty said, his index finger pointing at the ceiling as though to emphasise a point, “tonight I took a step closer to wreaking my revenge on you.”

“Oh, so you’ve met a woman?” I said.

“I’m engaged,” he said, and we raised our glasses.

What Sporty referred to by wreaking revenge is that some five years earlier I had got spliced, and I shanghaied Mr. S. Porter into performing best man duties. As a token of my appreciation for his efforts in the role, I presented Sporty with a rather tidy gold-plated ball-point pen. He still uses that pen to this day, and when drawing it in my presence, he never fails to mention that the ink cartridge therein has, by some distance, outlived the marriage that initiated its purchase.

He wasn’t a good fit as best man. After imbibing several whiskies and far too much buck’s fizz at the reception to calm the nerves, he slurred out a speech, which those who could decipher it thought went beyond the boundaries of good taste, and during which he let slip a most unfortunate Spoonerism. As he was closing his address, Sporty turned pale, spewed an orange gush all over the head table, and then collapsed behind it.

Before that disaster, Sporty had been a confirmed bachelor. But, after he’d sobered up, he swore that he would one day take a bride, and, by way of vengeance, bestow the same duties upon me to see how I liked it. I wouldn’t be living in dread of imminent revenge, however, this was his third engagement in as many years.

Sporty went on to divulge how he had popped the question over dessert at Antonio’s restaurant, earlier that evening, and the good lady had accepted. “And so,” Sporty said, “let us recharge our glasses and drink a toast to Pansy Trucklethorne

Now, I am aware that on occasion the most remarkable coincidences have been known to occur, and I hoped that this was one such. For, I knew a woman from my past with that very moniker, and her reputation was not a good one. In fact, in less polite society, I have heard her name mentioned in the same sentence as the handrail on the Titanic. The jolt I gave in reaction to hearing the name alerted Sporty to the possibility of there being some sort of connection between me and his intended. “You know her?” he said.

“I believe I know of someone of that name, yes,” I said, “but that was way back in the past before you moved to these parts.”

The Pansy I knew was a pleasant, pretty girl who had allure in spades. The trouble was, for a half of lager just about any young buck who gave it a shot would be given the green light to delve further into that allure. She also had quite an appetite for fiances, having been engaged more times than a buffet car toilet.

If Sporty was going to commit himself to a lifetime with one of the loosest women in town, and the rare surname made that possibility seem likely, then I, as an old mate, had a duty to make him aware of what he was getting into. But how would I do it?

First of all, I would sleep on it. Sporty was already three parts into the clutches of Morpheus, mumbling to himself with his chin on his chest, so I went to the airing cupboard to get him some blankets. With the new fiance asleep on the couch, I retired to my own warm bed, where I pondered Sporty’s plight with my feet on the hot bag.

In the morning, I revived Sporty with a brace of fizzy tablets, and then, while the toaster went about its business, I joined my friend at the kitchen table, where we were to breakfast on hot toast and cold facts. As it turned out, Sporty was the first to speak.

“Jeff,” he said, “did I ask a favour of you last night?”

“I don’t think so, no. Relating to what exactly?”

“My Pansy.”

“No, although I have to say you were rambling a trifle as you dozed off.”

There was silence until the toast popped up, and I was glad of the distraction. As I set about the slices with butter and marmalade, Sporty went on, his demeanour being that of someone harbouring a heavy burden. “Pansy is a sweet girl, but I’ve heard the most terrible things attributed to her. They say she would go with anyone willing to stump up for a half of lager.”

“Well,” I said, elongating the word as I tried to think of my next one, “people will always talk.”

“You knew her back in the day, Jeff. What was she like? I want you to be frank with me.”

“Oh, right. Well, she has been, that is to say, she was, erm, shall we say a little flighty. But that was when I worked at the White Horse before I was even married. I’ve not seen her since.” I was dragged well outside of my comfort zone in relaying those words to Sporty, but I was actually pulling my punches. If I’d brought up such happenings as a certain after-hours pool game at which Miss Trucklethorne was, shall we say, the star player, old Sporty might have had a seizure.

“I need to know I can trust her,” Sporty said. I swallowed a chunk of toast and gave a reply.

“Of course you do. No use getting engaged to someone you can’t trust.” I was quite happy with the direction of the conversation, which seemed to favour the extrication of Sporty from Pansy’s grasp. Then he bowled me a googly.

“That brings me around to the favour I was going to ask. We agree that I need to be certain I can trust Pansy, so I want to put it to the test.”

“How so?” I said, warily.

“Pansy and I have tickets for the annual farmers’ Christmas bash tomorrow night at the Horse and Cow, but I’m going to feign illness. I want to give you my ticket, so you can go along and,” he hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Well, Jeff, would you be such a mate that you’d make a pass at Pansy to see if she reciprocates? I need to know.” I was aghast at the suggestion. The girl in question may have allure in spades, but she has a reputation as dark. It would do nothing for my social standing to be seen at a well-attended function, chatting up a girl I once heard a coarse youth refer to as the village bike. And yet, I wanted to help Sporty.

“Sporty, old mate,” I said, “you haven’t thought this through. I can’t very well make a pass in the direction of a woman at whose wedding I would be best man further down the line. It’s a bit off.” Sporty was crestfallen.

“You’re right,” he said, “I hadn’t thought it through.”

I have to say, the sight of my pal sitting there all morose stirred in me a determination to pull him from the mire. He may have been a useless best man, but he was my useless best man. Just then, an idea flashed through my mind, and I grabbed it. “I’ll tell you what though,” I said, “let me run this past you.”

I told Sporty that my cousin Terry, by all accounts a nice-looking chap, is up from Lincolnshire, and staying with my parents for the week. I was sure that he would help us out by coming on to Pansy under our instruction. And I’m pleased to report that Sporty deemed it a good idea too. By the time my guest had got back into his coat and gloves, and we said goodbye at the door, the foundations of the plan were laid, and a rather bewildered cousin of mine had climbed reluctantly on board.

In my apartment on the morning of the ploy, I briefed Terry about his role, and I gave him Sporty’s ticket to the event. Then I got a call from the man himself, who didn’t sound as keen on the scheme as he had at its hatching. “It’s no use,” Jeff,” he said, “I wouldn’t be able to stand the anguish of being at home while things played out at the Horse and Cow.”

“You’re not calling it off, are you?” I said.

“No, no. But there’s been a change of plan.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve bought two tickets. I want us to go.”

“Sporty, old mate,” I said, “have you gone off your rocker? Pansy will see us.”

“Ah, but that’s where I got clever. My sister is involved with a local am-dram group, and she’s provided me with a bag full of props. There’s beards, wigs, false noses, everything. We can go in disguise.”

Now, I have to say that in my thirty-two years I have witnessed my share of crackpot ideas, but none of those even comes close to what Sporty had just proposed. I was genuinely lost for words.

“But,” I said, “what if... I mean, you can’t be, what about, erm, surely.”

“You don’t seem too keen on the idea, Jeff,” Sporty said, “but I’m doing this, even if I go it alone.”

As soon as it was established that Sporty was definitely going ahead with his hare-brained scheme, which could pan out into any number of hilarious situations, how could I not go along with it? “Mark me down as going,” I said, thinking I might well be in for a hoot.

That evening, just after Terry had rung to say he was on his way into town for a few looseners ahead of the big chat-up, Sporty arrived at my apartment with a bag containing the aforementioned props. We laughed ourselves silly, trying on various facial disguises, most of which were entirely unconvincing.

Eventually, we settled for a full beard each, and I complemented my look with a pair of thick-framed spectacles that had the lenses poked out. Sporty topped off with a bobble hat, and I chose a flat cap. As a finishing, and I have to say hilarious touch, Sporty produced two sets of wonky upper teeth he’d procured from a joke shop. When the disguises were complete, I doubt our own mothers would have recognised us.

Having exhausted our hilarity so that we could act normally at the function, at seven-fifteen, a taxi arrived that would take us into Pansy territory.

The function room at the Horse and Cow was busy, although the dance floor was unoccupied due to those present not yet having consumed sufficient alcohol to loosen inhibitions. As Sporty and I waited to be served at the bar, my friend began jabbing me rather sharply in the ribs, while trying to express himself in the manner of a ventriloquist doing the dummy’s part. I looked to my left, and there was Pansy, right next to me. I have to say, she looked fabulous.

“Oh, hello,” Pansy said, “I’ve not seen you around before.” By way of reply, all I could offer was a sort of squeak, followed by a manual check of the beard to make sure all was intact. “I do like a man with a beard. We should have a dance later.” And then, to my horror, she began walking her fingers up my arm. “See you around, hairy face,” she said with a laugh, and she walked away.

When I turned back to Sporty, he looked even more like a farmer than previously, on account of his face having taken on the colour of a mangel-wurzel, that is if mangel-wurzels are a deep shade of pink. “Did you see that?” he said, “brazen.” I said she was just being friendly.

Sporty and I each took a half pint of beer and a single whisky to a corner table on a mezzanine, from where we would have a good view of proceedings.

I spotted Cousin Terry, looking very smart in a light grey suit, I have to say, and I waved him over. “All set?” I said.

“Just point me at her,” he said. I found his comment lacking in sensitivity towards old Sporty, and a vigorous twitch of that fellow’s facial hair suggested the thoughtless utterance had hit home.

I spotted Pansy talking to a young man in a tight sweater, whose upper torso was so developed, it caused me to suppose that his task every evening was to lift cattle manually one at a time up into a hay loft for a good night’s kip. “That’s her over there,” I said, “talking to the bulging sweater.”

On seeing Pansy, Terry ejaculated a cry of approval, and rubbed his hands together eagerly, in what I saw as another demonstration of insensitivity towards Sporty, who sat in silence. But, it must be said that Sporty needn’t have put himself through this anguish if he’d only attended the event with Pansy, as originally planned.

Eventually, the muscle man left, and Pansy stood alone by the bar. Terry made his move, and the phrase that best describes his technique is quick off the mark. Sporty and I watched on, as the couple laughed and nodded, and then Pansy’s fingers did a walk up Terry’s arm. When the barmaid came to take their order, the couple looked at each other and shook their heads. Terry helped Pansy on with her coat, and they crossed the dance floor on the way to the exit.

Sporty leaped to his feet in a rage. He pointed an accusing finger at his fiancee, and, not having yet mastered the new teeth, yelled Jezevel! The intended recipient of the insult did glance back over her shoulder, but she followed Terry out of the room, and out of Sporty’s life.

Sporty and I retired to the bar, where we removed our disguises and lost ourselves in a few good old beers. To my surprise, Sporty wasn’t too downhearted about what had happened, and we ended the evening back at my apartment for nightcaps.

The following morning, with Sporty being taxied homeward, I reflected on the success of the mission. Sporty had been spared from getting hitched to a loose woman, and I had been given a further reprieve from his vengeance in the best man department. “All in all a good result,” I said, as I unscrewed the lid from the marmalade.

After breakfast, I thought it best to give Cousin Terry a buzz to thank him for a job well done, and compliment him on his no-nonsense chat-up technique. He sounded in excellent spirits. “I’m glad you called, Cousin Jeff,” he said, “because I want you to be the first to know. I’m engaged.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. That Pansy girl has allure in spades.